956 
MS75 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    331    THT 


sj9jnpD/nuDy\i 

•DNi  'soaa 

ayoiAve 


Cbc   Chad's  ed«n 


By  E.  U  M, 


^  «  « 


NEW    HAVEN 

1901 


THIS  SKETCH  IS  REPUBLISHED  THROUGH  THE 
COURTESY  OE  THE  NEW  YORK  EVENING  POST,  IN 
WHOSE  COLUMNS  IT  FIRST  APPEARED  UNDER  THE 
TITLE,    A    CHILD'S  WORLD. 


Co 

m.  p. 


M2G45il 


THE    CHILD'S    EDEN. 


The  Child  was  in  its  seventh  year,  and  the 
Garden,  twelve  times  as  old,  was  on  the  island. 
The  House  also  was  on  the  same  island,  and 
was  the  place  where  the  Child  ate  and  slept  and 
obeyed.     But  its  life  was  in  the  Garden. 

The  House  faced  a  pond,  and  two  bridges 
bound  it  and  the  Garden  to  the  World.  By 
the  lower  bridge  stood  the  old  mill ;  and  when 
its  gate  was  raised  a  flood  of  water  boiled  and 
twisted  down  to  a  smooth  gravel  bed  below,  and 
then  floated  quietly  to  the  Garden's  foot.  Over 
against  the  upper  bridge,  a  mighty  dam  held  the 
island  from  destruction.  When  the  pond  back 
of  it  was  full,  the  water  poured  in  a  smooth, 
green  stream  over  it,  and  was  dashed  into  spray 
and  foam  and  torn  to  shreds  on  the  jagged  rocks 
below. 

In  summer-time  when  there  had  been  but  little 


6  THK   CHIIvD'S   KDKN. 

rain-fall  the  great  timber  of  the  dam  was  bare, 
and  the  Child,  when  no  one  was  looking,  could 
walk  fearfully  across,  between  the  line  of  water 
shelving  to  the  right  and  the  black  mass  of  sheer 
rock  at  the  left.  Then  it  was  that  the  Child 
could  climb  over  the  low  stone  wall  that  kept 
the  Garden  in,  and  go  down  among  the  jewel- 
weed  and  stramonium,  and  clawing  blackberry 
vines  that  took  toll  of  gown  and  apron,  and 
explore  the  pools  and  bottomless  pits  in  the 
river-bed.  The  water  always  stood  in  these, 
dark  and  still,  however  severe  the  drought ;  and 
no  stick  ever  sounded  the  depth  of  the  largest 
of  them. 

So  it  must  have  been  bottomless,  like  some  of 
the  fearful  things  one  heard  read  on  Sundays  in 
Scripture.  And  though  the  Child,  with  the 
hair  of  its  flesh  standing  up,  dropped  in  stones, 
and  even  reached  down  an  arm's  length,  and 
brought  longer  sticks,  and  tried  them  again  and 
again,  the  deep  pool  was  a  kind  of  sacred  mystery 
for  ever.  If  the  Child  had  not  been  alone,  if  it 
had  had  a  brother,  one  fascination  of  its  seventh 
year  must  have  been  lost. 


THE  CHIIvD'S  kden.  7 

There  were  holes  without  number  in  the  bed 
of  this  stream,  and  sharp-pointed  rocks  ;  so  that 
when  the  pond  above  was  full  it  was  a  grand 
torrent  that  foamed  roaring  to  the  harbor,  where 
it  found  the  quiet  mill-stream  curling  round  the 
Garden's  foot.  A  steep  bank  at  the  right  shut 
the  river  from  the  world,  and  so  made  it  the 
Child's  own  for  ever. 

On  the  pond,  made  classic  as  Windermere  by 
song,  geese  floated  double  in  the  long  summer 
days,  and  lent  enchantment,  and  birds  nested  in 
the  elms  that  dipped  their  branches  in  the  water, 
and  bees  hummed  in  the  clover.  Then  the 
expanse  narrowed,  and  a  simple  river  met  it, 
creeping  along  by  the  highway,  floating  between 
two  guardian  churches  with  tall  steeples,  under 
a  long  bridge,  and  so  through  the  town  to  the 
mill  and  dam. 

The  Child's  thought  went  backward  with  it, 
always  starting  at  the  foot  of  the  Garden.  The 
stream  bore  an  Indian  name,  and  might  have 
had  its  source  in  the  midst  of  campfires  and  wig- 
wams, and  birch-bark  canoes,  and  frightful  war- 
whoops  and  tomahawks,  perhaps  a  mile,  possibly 


8  THK   CHII^D'S   EDEN. 

two  miles  away.  Miles  were  vague  measures, 
like  time. 

There  were  two  lesser  things  in  the  Child's 
life  :  the  Mill  and  the  Dame  School.  The  first 
belonged  to  an  old,  old  man,  like  those  persons 
who  lived  before  the  flood  ;  whose  hat  and  hair 
and  coat  and  eyebrows  were  always  white,  yes, 
and  his  boots,  and  whatever  else  he  wore. 
There  was  a  soft,  rumbling  kind  of  silence 
always  within  the  mill,  where  the  hoppers  made 
little  whirlpools  of  dusty  grain,  going  down  and 
down  and  down  ;  and  the  Child  leaned  over  with 
a  thrill  tingling  its  whole  body,  and  knew  that 
itself  could  be  drawn  down  and  down  and  down 
into  the  wide,  floury  bags  below,  choked  and 
lost  for  ever.  The  soft  dust  filled  the  air  and 
softened  the  sunlight  and  whitened  the  cobwebs 
among  the  rafters,  and  it  was  all  something 
apart  from  the  World  and  the  Garden. 

The  second  thing  was  the  Dame  School,  where 
a  very  old  lady,  years  older  than  the  miller, 
kept  ten  prisoners  on  an  upper  floor  of  her  own 
house,  from*nine  till  twelve,  and  from  one  till 
four,  every  day  but  Saturday.     The  Child  did 


THK  chii^d's  kdkn.  9 

not  then  know  that  liberty  was  only  sweet  when 
bought  with  a  great  price. 

Every  morning  as  the  clock  paused  on  the 
stroke  of  nine,  the  Dame  folded  her  hands  and 
prayed,  sitting  upright  like  Buddha,  while  her 
Captives  knelt,  each  in  its  place.  At  the  right 
hand  of  the  Image  stood  the  best  girl  of  the 
school,  nine  years  old,  perfect  in  word  and  deed 
and  called  Monitor,  who  walked  around  on  tip- 
toe and  rapped  on  the  head  with  the  ferrule  any 
culprit  who  peeped  out.  It  was  a  diabolic  plot, 
not  fully  appreciated  at  the  time  by  the  prisoners; 
for  who  could  hear  the  stealthy  approach  of 
Calamity  and  blindly  wait,  not  knowing  which 
way  to  dodge  ?  So  heaven  alone  had  the  benefit 
of  the  morning  prayer. 

All  day  long,  winter  and  summer,  summer  and 
winter,  like  Eternity,  the  Child  thought,  little 
hands  knitted  and  sewed,  with  book  always  in 
lap.  The  daily  "stent"  was  marked  by  the 
Fate  in  cap  and  spectacles,  sitting  in  a  high 
arm-chair,  and  no  child  left  the  room  till  its  task 
was  perfectly  finished. 

The  spelling-class  of  six  stood  with  toes  on  a 


lO  THE   CHII.DS   KDKN. 

crack  of  the  wide  floor-board  nearest  the  teacher, 
where  her  long  arm,  like  Justice's,  could  reach 
any  offender,  and  where  nothing  could  be  hidden 
from  her  all-seeing  eye.  The  first  child  in  the 
row  named  "Baker  "  and  spelled  it ;  the  second 
named  "Shady"  and  spelled  it;  the  third 
named  "  I^ady "  and  spelled  it;  the  fourth 
named  "  Tidy  "  and  spelled  it.  But  if  Number 
Two,  twisting  nervous  fingers  in  her  apron, 
named  "Lady"  instead  of  "Shady,"  her  fin- 
gers were  rapped  for  moving,  and  she  was  dis- 
graced and  sent  to  the  foot.  For  order  stood  on 
a  level  with  accuracy  at  this  tribunal.  There 
was  no  Figure  Five  on  a  half-inch  square  of 
paper  for  Number  Two  that  day  to  hoard  in  her 
pasteboard  match-box  ;  no  drink  from  the  tin 
dipper,  however  parched  the  little  lips  might  be. 
For  these  precious  Figure  Fives  had  to  be  parted 
with,  one  for  every  drink  of  brackish  water  that 
stood  in  a  wooden  pail  in  the  entry.  Five  Fives 
were  exchangeable  at  long  periods  for  one  Ten  ; 
ten  Tens  for  a  two-inch  Reward  of  Merit.  The 
Child  alone  was  not  dazzled  at  sight  of  even  the 
final  Reward  gained  'at  such  loss  and  pain,  but 


the:  chii^d  s  kdkn.  II 

drank  its  fill  daily  and  wondered  at  tlie  others. 
Sometimes  it  wondered  also  if  the  warm,  tinny 
taste  of  the  water  drawn  from  a  well  too  near 
the  sea  had  any  connection  with  the  Reward. 

The  miller's  daughter,  Abigail,  a  thin,  lint- 
haired  child,  with  pale  blue  eyes,  knitted  long 
stockings  for  her  tall  brother,  who  was  a  man. 
The  Child  thought  of  him  as  Saul,  he  stood  so 
much  higher  than  his  brethren.  One  day  when 
the  long  stocking  had  grown  by  painful  half 
inches  nearly  to  the  toe,  the  sharp  eyes  of  Dame 
Fate  discovered  a  dropped  stitch  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  leg,  and  ravelled  it  all  out  from 
bottom  to  top.  Tears  for  little  Abigail,  and  no 
Figure  Five  ! 

The  heart  of  the  Child  was  hot  within  its 
bosom  as  it  saw  fall  one  after  one  the  pink  and 
blue  and  yellow  and  red  yarn-marks  like  mile- 
stones all  along  the  way — marks  knitted  in  by 
the  teacher's  bony  fingers  and  tied  in  hard  knots 
on  the  wrong  side  ;  marks  never  to  be  removed 
save  by  the  mistress-hand  when  the  task  was 
done.  It  seemed  like  a  waste  of  life.  But 
Abigail  took  up  her  weary  *  *  bouts  ' '  again,  with 
the  patience  of  despair. 


12  THK   CHII,d'S   KDKN. 

Every  other  Saturday  morning  school  kept, 
that  Satan  might  not  have  too  much  verge  and 
opportunity,  and  the  Catechism  was  ground  into 
the  tough  fibre  of  memory  in  place  of  other  tasks. 
But  the  sewing  and  knitting  kept  on.  At  one 
of  these  every-others,  the  Child  looked  out  be- 
tween the  two  lengths  of  window-curtain,  and 
saw  a  shaggy  dog  bounding  in  and  out  of  the 
water,  and  laughed  softly  to  itself.  But  Dame 
Fate,  whose  eyes  were  everywhere  beholding 
the  evil,  spied  the  crime,  pinned  the  curtains 
closer  together,  set  two  sharp  thumbs  in  the 
hollows  of  the  small  shoulders,  shook  the  Child 
dizzy,  and  turned  its  back  to  the  school,  where 
it  learned,  as  an  extra  task,  ' '  The  I.ord  is  my 
shepherd,"  etc.  It  was  the  old-fashioned  way 
of  teaching  children  to  love  the  Bible. 

The  Catechism  question  for  the  day  was, 
' '  Wherein  consists  the  sinfulness  of  that  estate 
whereinto  man  fell?"  And  the  answer,  "  The- 
sinfulness-of-that-estate- wherei  nto-man-fell  -  con- 
sists-in-the-guilt-of-Adam's-fi  rst-sin-the-want-of- 
original-righteousness-and-the-corruption-of-his- 
whole-nature- which -is-commonly-called-original- 


THK   child's   KDKN.  13 

sin  -  together  -  with  -  all  -  actual  -  transgressions- 
which-proceed-from-it. ' ' 

But  the  Child  was  far  away.  Even  the  whim- 
pering of  the  A  B  C  babes  under  the  ferrule  for 
rustling  about  did  not  bring  tears  as  usual,  for 
its  eyes  were  set  on  green  pastures  where  little 
white  lambs  kicked  up  their  free  heels,  and 
mother-sheep  took  no  notice,  but  nibbled  and 
ba-a-d  all  day  long,  as  if  there  were  no  harm  in 
it.  The  leading-beside-still-waters  made  quite 
another  picture,  but  might  it  not  be  done  by 
some  older,  wiser  playmate  with  a  string,  to 
keep  the  Child  safely  on  shore  between  river  and 
meeting  mill-stream,  where  chip-vessels  would 
float  and  dip  and  veer  distractedly,  go  under, 
and  rise  again?  The  paths  of  righteousness 
took  thought,  but  might  they  not  be  those  that 
led  from  porch  to  garden-gate,  where  one  never 
disobeyed,  or  ran  outside  of  bounds — never  but 
once? 

That  was  last  year,  when  November  winds 
were  bleak,  and  the  Child,  at  Abigail's  beckon- 
ing, across  the  mill-stream,  strayed  out  and  to 
the  lower  bridge  in  a  vagrant  way,  looking  for 


14  'The:  CHiiyD  s  Kdkn. 

Something,  neither  child  knew  what.  So  they 
stopped  at  the  Gentle  Lady's  door  and  asked  to 
see  the  squirrels  in  the  whirling  cage  that  smelt 
warm  and  foreigny,  and  fed  them  with  hickory 
nuts  ;  and  Time  went  on.  Then  they  took  hold 
of  hands,  and  ran  and  ran  and  ran,  swinging 
down  the  hill,  and  the  Child  fell  in  the  sand  at 
the  bottom  and  knew  it  would  never  breathe 
again. 

Then  they  strolled  across  the  way  to  the 
Queer  House  with  sanded  floor,  where  the  Child 
slipped  and  fell,  and  the  miller's  daughter,  who 
had  been  there  before,  snatched  up  the  unusual 
guest,  shook  off  the  sand,  and  went  on  to  the 
dark,  low  room  where  the  Queer  Lady,  like  her 
of  Shallot,  weaved  all  day  long  and  cared  for 
nothing  else.  She  wore  a  strange  woollen  gown, 
coarse  of  texture — for  the  Child  took  a  pinch  of 
a  stray  fold  that  left  bare  a  bony  neck  except 
for  a  snuffy  kerchief  twisted  about  it.  The 
Child  saw  a  blue-check  apron,  too,  and  great 
felt  slippers  on  the  treadle,  and  a  few  gray  hairs  ^ 
screwed  into  a  tight  little  knot,  small  as  a  filbert, 
beneath  a  black  cap. 


THK    CHIIvD'S    KDKN.  15 

The  two  watched  the  shuttle  and  the  web  and 
heard  the  clang  of  the  loom  as  long  as  it  was 
new  ;  and  when'  they  moved  to  go  the  weaver 
opened  her  thin  lips  for  the  first  time  and  said 
they  might  pick  up  quinces  in  her  garden,  for 
there  was  going  to  be  a  frost  by  night.  So  the 
two  Simple  Ones  picked  up  cold  quinces  till  the 
daylight  was  gone  ;  and  there  was  no  more  Time 
for  them  than  if  they  had  been  Angels  in  the 
Sun.  But  that  night  when  the  wind  shrieked 
and  the  Child  lay  with  a  swollen,  throbbing 
throat,  never  knowing  before  what  Night  was 
like,  all  the  sorrows  of  the  transgressor  piled 
their  weight  on  its  hot  head,  and  it  cried  out  in 
awe  of  the  Unknown,  like  a  certain  pious  little 
Queen-to-be,    "  I  will  be  good." 

For  had  not  the  mother  searched  every  nook 
and  corner  in  House  and  Garden,  and  sent  the 
miller's  son  to  drag  the  pond,  just  as  a  shivering 
little  figure  in  blue  gingham  came  loitering  in 
sight,  with  a  burnt  ginger-cookie  in  the  purple 
fist  that  did  not  grasp  the  sunbonnet,  and  tight 
little  heart-strings  that  conscience  was  tugging 
at  ?     But  these  last  did  not  show. 


i6  run  chiIvD's  kden. 

The  Dame  School  in  summer  time  held  one 
only  joy.  It  was  the  thought  of  hot  July  and 
August  days,  when  the  clouds  piled  up  like 
woolly  mountains,  and  lightnings  streaked  the 
sky.  Then  the  Fate  of  the  arm-chair,  impelled 
by  something  mysterious  and  invisible,  stopped 
work,  stepped  down,  and  gently  shepherded  her 
willing  flock  to  a  room  across  the  hallway  with 
one  green-paper-darkened  window  and  a  high 
feather  bed. 

Any  child  was  allowed  to  share  the  Bed  of 
Safety  with  the  Dame,  whose  dignity  gave  way 
before  the  God  of  Thunder,  but  there  was  not 
even  a  tradition  that  in  the  dark  past  ages  any 
child  had  so  demeaned  itself  as  to  accept  the 
privilege. 

The  least  ones  played  softly  behind  the  one 
high-backed  chair,  while  the  elders  crawled 
under  the  bed  and  whispered  made-up  stories, 
and  came  out  linty  and  feathery  when  the  storm 
was  over,  without  a  touch  of  the  ferrule  even 
from  the  Dame,  who  sat  cowed  in  the  middle  of 
the  bed,  a  deposed  and  sceptreless  queen. 

And  so  all  her  small  flock  revelled  in  storm 


THE   CHIIvD'S   KDKN.  17 

and  thunder,    and  never  knew  what  fear  was, 
except  to  despise  its  image  when  they  saw  it. 

The  days  went  on  and  on,  but  the  foolishness 
called  school  could  not  last  for  ever,  and  the 
Garden,  like  a  reliable  friend,  was  always  wait- 
ing. It  was  the  most  wonderful  Garden  !  When 
Scripture  was  read  in  the  house  on  still  Sabbath 
mornings,  it  stood  for  that  First  Garden— then 
and  always  afterwards,  for  fifty  years  and  more. 

The  high  wall  to  the  right,  across  the  river, 
covered  with  tall  grass  and  hardy  shrubs  and  a 
tree  or  two,  was  the  place  where  the  Almighty 
stood  and  called  to  disobedient  Adam.  And  the 
Angel  with  the  Flaming  Sword  had  his  own 
place  behind  the  greening  apple  tree  that  was 
proxy  to  the  Fall  and  that  shaded  the  chicken- 
yard. 

And  when  the  Immortal  Two  went  hand  in 
hand  barefooted  out  of  Eden,  they  paced  slowly 
past  the  rows  of  corn  and  potatoes  and  poles  of 
beans,  to  the  stone  wall.  There  fancy  left  them 
to  fade  into  thin  air.  The  Beyond  was  hidden, 
even  to  the  Child. 

Not  that  the  Child  observed  the  practical  Gar- 


l8  THE)   CHIIvD'S    KDKN. 

den  much,  only  that  Adam  and  Eve  must  pass 
in  the  direction  of  the  Voice,  and  facts  were 
stubborn  but  possible  things.  This  portion  of 
the  Garden  had  no  interest  for  the  Child,  who 
simply  knew  that  a  man  came  at  times,  and  dug 
and  planted  and  hoed  when  his  presence  was  an 
intrusion. 

It  saw,  dimly,  green  things  sprouting,  grow- 
ing tall,  climbing,  blossoming,  fading.  Flowers, 
too,  had  their  place  :  great  clumps  of  peonies, 
hollyhocks  loved  of  bumblebees,  tall  lilacs  with 
sweet  clusters  of  purple  and  white,  and  grape- 
vines with  blossoms  infinitely  sweeter  that  could 
not  be  picked — though  they  seemed  to  bear  no 
natural  relation  to  the  purple  fruit  that  came  in 
the  autumn.     But  law  was  law. 

And  there  were  beds  of  sweet  alyssum  and 
mignonette  and  masses  of  pinks  that  burst  their 
bonds  and  fell  over  the  border,  a  rain  of  sweet- 
ness ;  just  old-fashioned  pink  pinks. 

From  the  house-porch  with  two  windows  and 
a  wide  hall-door  looking  out  under  heavy  eye- 
brows— two  eyes  and  a  long  nose,  the  Child 
thought — ran  a  little  crooked  path  to  the  Gar- 


THK   CHII^D'S   EDKN.  19 

den.  It  stopped  at  the  well,  then  bent  around 
over  a  great  flat  rock,  up  and  up,  then  down 
again,  wavering  through  rough  places,  but 
always  keeping  its  end  in  view,  the  Garden 
gate. 

One  long  summer's  day,  a  Saturday  when 
school  did  not  keep,  the  Child,  who  was  heartily 
tired  of  shoes  and  stockings,  begged  to  go  bare- 
footed to  the  Garden,  and  stoutly  waived  all 
elderly  objections.  So  a  tardy  consent  was 
gained,  and  the  pink-and-white  feet  started 
bravely  from  the  shelter  of  the  porch,  hesitated 
a  fraction  of  a  second  by  the  well,  and  went 
slowly  on.  Some  one  who  always  knew  best 
said  the  stones  would  hurt.  They  didn't — 
much.  That  they  would  cut ;  perhaps  make 
the  blood  come.  The  Child  screwed  up  its 
mouth,  held  tight  by  its  sunbonnet  strings,  and 
walked  on  its  heels  and  the  outer  edges  of  its 
feet.  Then  it  stood  on  one  foot,  and  curled  up 
the  other  against  the  ankle  of  the  standing  one. 
But  what  if  some  ' '  force  of  nature  ' '  should  be 
looking  from  the  porch-window. 

The  .  tiny   seed   Deceit   dropped   into   barren 


20  THB   CHII^d'S   EDKN. 

ground.  For  just  ahead  bloomed  a  royal  bunch 
of  catnip,  a  most  luxuriant  growth  with  the  dew 
of  the  morning  scarcely  off  its  gray  velvet  leaves. 
The  little  feet  were  hot  and  sore,  but  the  pursed- 
up  mouth  was  resolute  as  ever.  Once  on  the 
stone  wall  with  a  certainty  of  dipping  both  feet, 
of  splashing  in  the  water  on  the  still  side,  of 
pressing  it  down  and  having  it  push  back  again 
— what  joy  !  One  foot  brushed  the  tender  tops 
of  the  catnip  bunch,  then  both  settled  firmly 
down.  But  in  its  treacherous  deeps  a  bumble- 
bee was  quietly  breakfasting,  and  his  sudden 
resentment  was  cruel.  If  he  could  have  known  ! 
But  the  Universe  is  arranged  on  such  an  awk- 
ward plan.  There  was  one  sharp,  frightened- 
to-death  scream,  and  the  Child  was  picked  up 
with  the  bee  still  clinging  to  the  toe.  It  meant 
hours  of  pain,  with  a  dizzy  foot  on  a  cushion, 
and  the  sad  lesson  learned,  like  most,  alas  !  with 
too  great  suffering,  that  elders  always  know 
best. 

So  that  day  was  lost.  And  everything  in 
nature  went  on  just  the  same. 

Church  days  came  often,  when  the  mornings 


THK   CHIIvD'S   KDKN.  21 

were  so  still  and  long,  and  '  Pilgrim's  Progress ' 
was  often  read  aloud  before  the  walk  to  the 
House  of  God.  The  tabby-cat  purred  softly 
and  stretched  lazy  claws  on  the  grass  at  the 
sunny  side  of  the  porch.  The  air  vibrated 
gently  to  the  shock  of  falling  water.  Remote 
wheels,  sounding  near  at  hand,  rolled  leisurely 
up  the  hill,  and  here  and  there  large  and  small 
figures  by  twos  and  threes  followed  the  leadings 
of  the  bells.  There  was  no  hop,  skip,  and  jump 
on  the  holy  day.  The  Child  was  led  softly  by 
the  hand  with  a  bonnet  tied  beneath  its  chin  and 
best  shoes  on  its  prim  feet ;  shoes  that  pinched  a 
little,  for  there  was  time  to  grow  between  the 
Ivord's  Days.  But  this  was  never  mentioned,  as 
they  were  pretty  shoes,  set  apart  and  dedicated 
to  the  occasion,  belonging  to  the  sacredness  of 
the  day.  And  pain  in  some  unknown  way 
belonged  to  good  things. 

The  river  all  along  the  road  ran  softly  as  that 
of  the  Prothalamion  ;  but  the  birds  just  shouted 
and  were  not  ashamed.  All  things  else  held 
themselves  in  reverently. 

The  pews  of  the  white  church  had  high  seats 


22  THE    CHILD  S    EDKN. 

and  straight  backs  :  the  prayers  and  hymns  were 
long,  and  the  preaching  a  sleepy  mystery.  If 
the  deacon's  wife  had  not  now  and  then  passed 
over  the  back  of  the  pew  a  plump  head  of  spread- 
ing carroway  or  arrowy  dill,  if  a  real  church 
mouse  had  not  peeped  from  under  the  footstool 
and  kept  expectation  on  the  stretch,  the  hours 
must  have  been  long  indeed.  Sometimes  a  joy- 
ful thunder-storm  bursting  with  old-fashioned 
fury,  broke  up  the  services,  and  people  gathered 
in  awe-struck  knots  to  whisper  stories  of  light- 
ning strokes  not  meant  for  little  ears  but  quite 
unheeded  by  Dame-scholars.  The  dripping 
home  in  the  rain  was  fun  enough  for  a  week- 
day. After  the  solemn  dinner  cam.e  hymns  and 
'Pilgrim's  Progress,'  but  neither  doll,  story- 
book, nor  Garden.  The  secular  part  of  the 
Catechism  was  slowly  spelled  out  in  the  long 
hours  to  the  solemn  ticking  of  a  tall  clock  in  the 

corner. 

"In  Adam's  Fall 
We  sinned  all." 
"  Thy  life  to  mend 
This  Book  attend." 
"The  Cat  doth  play 
And  after  slay." 


THK    child's    KDKN.  23 

"The  Dog  will  bite 
A  thief  at  night.'' 
"Job  feels  the  Rod, 
Yet  blesses  God." 
"The  idle  fool 
Is  whipped  at  school." 

— which  was  in  some  way  connected  with  Job's 
punishment  in  the  Child's  small  mind. 

"The  Eagle's  flight 

Is  out  of  sight." 

' '  As  runs  the  Glass 

Man's  life  doth  pass." 

"  Zaccheus  he 

Did  climb  the  tree 

His  Lord  to  see." 

"  Proud  Korah's  troop 

Was  swallowed  up." 

"  Young  Obadias, 

David,  Josias, 

All  were  pious." 

* '  Xerxes  the  Great  did  die, 

And  so  must  you  and  I  " — 

which  singled  Xerxes  out  from  the  great,  vague 
world  full  of  alarming  people,  yet  in  some  way 
lowered  him  to  the  Child's  comprehension,  and 
brought  day-dreams  of  his  glory. 

If  only  the  Garden  days  might  have  been  half 
so  long  !     What  journeys  might  the  Child  have 


24  THE   CHII^D'S   KDKN. 

taken,  sitting  solitary  on  the  stone  wall  above 
the  flat  rock  that  sloped  to  the  deep  water,  and 
looking  across  to  Harbor  Woods.  Many  a  time 
had  Xerxes  rounded  the  Point  this  side  the  Gulf 
with  a  fleet  of  glorified  fishing  smacks  and 
purple  banners.  Red-white-and-blue  streamed 
everywhere  from  the  Conquering  Ship,  and  a 
Band  in  the  bow  played  Xerxes' s  favorite  tunes, 
while  the  Commander  waved  his  crown  of  gold 
and  jewels  toward  the  shore,  and  his  yellow  hair 
and  velvet  robes  streamed  in  the  wind.  It  was 
at  the  high  point  where  the  Almighty  spoke  to 
Adam  in  the  Garden  that  the  vessels  always 
anchored,  and  Xerxes  proudly  knelt  and  kissed 
the  wet  sand,  holding  a  gold  cross  as  tall  as 
himself,  which  was  very  tall,  and  naming  the 
land.  Well,  perhaps  it  was  not  Xerxes  ;  the 
thing  only  signified,  and  the  vision  and  the  glory 
were  the  Child's. 

And  sometimes  the  Crusaders,  young  and  old, 
came  singing  across  the  Gulf  like  a  heavenly 
choir,  and  the  Child  waited  with  a  beating  heart 
and  moist  eyes  to  see  them  round  the  Point,  all 
in  white,  with  red  crosses  on  their  garments  and 


THK   CHIIvD'S   KDBN.  25 

harps  in  their  hands.  Many  a  time  it  dashed 
away  the  blinding  tears  lest  they  should  come 
suddenly  and  be  dim  in  its  sight.  Abigail  said 
it  was  nothing  but  the  men  and  boys  digging 
clams  the  other  side  of  the  rock.  So  the  Child 
did  not  tell  Abigail  what  she  heard  any  more. 

One  day  when  the  Child  sat  on  the  low  wall, 
built  up  of  stones  taken  from  the  Garden,  look- 
ing across  the  millstream,  it  saw  Abigail  com- 
ing, with  shoes  and  stockings  gathered  up  in 
her  apron  and  knew  that  she  dared  come  across. 
What  if  the  great  gate  should  be  lifted  up,  and 
the  flood  come  boiling  down  and  sweep  the  bold 
girl  away  to  the  harbor  and  on  to  the  sea,  roll- 
ing and  tossing  like  a  dry  leaf  or  a  chip  boat, 
shoes  and  stockings  and  all  ?  Who  in  all  the 
world  could  save  her,  and  what  would  become 
of  her  soul  unless  she  was  prepared  to  die  ? 

But  Abigail  came  softly  across,  for  the  ex- 
pected does  not  happen  ;  and  the  water  covered 
her  feet  and  crisped  up  around  her  ankles.  But 
it  seemed  really  much  deeper,  because  she  held 
her  skirts  so  high  and  walked  delicately,  like 
Agag  before  the  Great  King.     That  was  because 


26  THK   CHII^d'S   KDKN. 

of  the  stones  that  hurt  her  feet.  Soon  she 
scrambled  up  beside  the  Child  and  dangled  her 
wet  feet  in  the  sun  until  such  time  as  she  could 
put  on  her  shoes  and  stockings  and  play  house. 
The  Child  never  cared  for  a  little  square  of 
ground  fenced  in  with  small  stones,  nor  for  a 
house  built  of  corncobs,  or  of  twigs  and  straws 
like  a  bird's  nest ;  nor  for  bits  of  pink  and  blue 
broken  china  carefully  washed  and  stood  on  a 
shingle-shelf  balanced  on  two  stones.  She  did 
not  care  for  sand  pies  and  mud  gingerbread 
baked  in  the  sun,  nor  for  dolls  made  of  a  stick 
and  a  pocket  handkerchief.  But  unlike  many 
wiser  and  older  folk,  she  was  willing  to  let  Abi- 
gail enjoy  herself  in  her  chosen  way,  if  only  left 
free  to  think  her  own  thoughts  and  choose  her 
own  pleasures.  And  while  Abigail  puttered 
about  her  house  and  scolded  her  children,  shak- 
ing them  well,  and  whisked  up  the  floor  with  a 
bunch  of  limp  grass,  the  Child,  always  looking 
for  Something,  saw  the  miller's  other  son  com- 
ing to  the  flat  rock  in  his  father's  dory. 

''Want  a  sail?"   he  called.      And  then  the 
children  saw  that  he  was  stepping  a  mast  into 


THK    CHII^d'S   KDEN.  27 

the  boat,  made  of  a  broken  oar,  and  tying  a  bit 
of  red  and  white  shawl  to  it  for  a  sail. 

"  Where  are  you  goin'  ?  "  asked  Abigail. 

"Oh,  somewhere,"  the  Boy  said.  "Get  in, 
both  of  you,  and  you'll  know." 

"  Won't  you  tip  us  over?"  asked  the  Child. 

'*  No  ;  not  if  you  don't  look,"  the  Boy  said 
tentatively.  "  I  want  you  girls  to  shut  your 
eyes  tight,  honor  bright,  and  not  open  them  till 
I  say  'Now!'" 

The  children  clambered  into  the  boat,  for  this 
was  one  of  the  things  unforbidden,  because  un- 
foreseen, and  the  oars  thumped  in  the  rowlocks. 

"Why  can't  we  look  ?"  the  Child  asked. 

"Oh,  because.  You  keep  still,  and  see  where 
I'll  take  you." 

"Will  you  bring  us  back  again?"  asked 
Abigail.  ''  My  mother  would  feel  bad  if  I  didn't 
come  back." 

"Sure's  you  live,"  said  the  Boy,  who  was 
two  sizes  larger  than  they,  and  they  trusted  his 
word  of  honor,  and  folded  their  hands  in  the  lap 
of  their  aprons. 

"  Is  it  most  to  Harbor  Woods  ? ' '  asked  Abigail 


28  THK   CHII.D  S   KDKN. 

again,  as  the  waves  curled  softly  about  the  bow 
and  rippled  away. 

"  Hush  up  !"  said  the  Boy  manfully.  "I'm 
givin'  you  a  sail." 

"But  where  are  we?"  the  child  persisted; 
and  the  Boy  was  silent,  like  his  kind.  "  I  wisht 
I  knew, ' '  she  sighed  ;  and  the  Boy  at  last  took 
pity,  and  said  gruffly,    "You'll  see." 

"  Better  not  go  out  in  the  Gulf,"  said  Abigail 
again,  for  it  was  her  own  brother,  accustomed 
to  feminine  advice.  ' '  Sloops  might  run  into  us 
and  tip  us  over.  Sail's  dangerous.  Mother 
said  so." 

The  Oracle  rocked  the  boat  gently,  and  the 
passengers  clutched  the  gunwale. 

But  the  Child  did  not  speak.  Its  eyes  were 
shining  under  their  screwed-up  lids,  and  its 
breath  came  with  thrills  that  tingled  down  to  its 
feet. 

They  must  be  at  Harbor  Woods  now — around 
the  Point — out  in  the  Gulf,  that  green  place  of 
awful  deeps.  Oh,  where  were  they  going  ?  The 
strain  was  too  great.  But  would  he  tip  them 
over  if  they  looked  ?    He  had  said,  honor  bright ; 


THE   child's   EDKN.  29 

no,  if  they  didn't  look.  The  Child  could 
scarcely  breathe  now.  She  thought  it  was  like 
Death  ;  that  fearful  thing  that  comes  and  stops 
one's  breath,  and  that  even  a  mother  cannot  for- 
bid, nor  shield  one  from.  The  Child  was  too 
young  to  know  that  it  was  already  in  Eternity, 
hemmed  in  by  Time,  and  that  the  Soul  may  go 
out  softly  in  death  as  in  dreams. 

They  were  going  through  the  great,  green 
Gulf  of  the  Unknown  Ocean.  And  with  a  sail  ! 
The  Child  knew  it  must  cry  out  in  time— very 
soon— "Oh,  mother,  mother!"  The  first  cry 
and  the  last  of  helpless  humanity  launched  on 
Unknown  tides. 

''Now  !"  said  the  Boy. 

The  boat  grated  on  the  sand,  the  children 
opened  dazed  eyes,  and  dimly  saw  their  own  flat 
rock,  their  own  stone  wall,  The  Garden. 

If  the  Child  were  to  go  back  to  the  Garden 
after  fifty  years,  would  it  sit  on  the  stone  wall 
and  dip  its  feet  in  the  water,  pushing  it  down 
until  it  pushed  back,  and  look  out  to  Harbor 
Woods  for  Xerxes  and  the  Crusaders?  Why 
not  ?     And  if  the  big  timber  of  the  mighty  dam 


30  THE   CHIIvD'S   KDEN. 

has  shrunken  with  the  years  like  the  miller,  and 
the  breadth  of  the  fall  narrowed  that  a  man  may 
leap  across  it ;  if  the  bottomless  pits  can  be 
sounded  with  a  little  longer  stick,  and  the  path 
from  the  porch  is  only  a  sheep-walk  up  a  hand's- 
breadth  rise  of  rock  and  down  again  ;  if  the 
height  from  which  the  Almighty  called  to  Adam 
has  a  house  on  it,  and  the  apple  tree  is  bowed 
and  mossy  with  age  ;  if  the  Garden  itself,  like 
the  British  Islands,  is  shrinking  from  the  sea, 
what  matters  it  if  only  the  years  have  left  the 
heart  of  the  Child? 


srajtsii 


M  n$ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY       | 

I: 


